It’s partly because of a blog post of this girl who said we showcase the side of ourselves what we want to show to the world on Instagram. In truth, I used to think it was for people who had things to show off. Ever notice how poor people don’t have Instagram? People who live in mountains of garbage, people whose swimming pools are canals or bays of litter and human waste? Plus, what would they use to ‘Instagram that sh*t?’ Nothing. They could barely have three meals a day. They survive by re-cooking people’s left-overs. They can’t afford an iPhone.
We’re somewhere in between. We’re not poor but we’re not rich. From time to time we can afford nice things, but lately, not so much, because all our money has been drained on hospital bills. I just graduated from a school considered elite in the country, and I do thank God for that. I’ve seen the lifestyles of the richest of the rich from where I live, and I admit, there was a time I wished I was one of them, but I’m also so close to the poorest of the poor.
Dad had a seizure again just last Friday, and you have the permission to slap me, because the thought of my peers’ Friday nights crossed my mind. I dreaded Friday nights. In fact, I’m starting to dread weekends, because on weekends, I stay home, and I’m reminded once again of all our problems, while my friends think Fridays are the best part of the week, and I’m reminded of why on Instagram.
They Instagram their dates, their drinks, the movies they watched. What should I post? I’m stuck reading my Physiology book beside my father who can’t stop coughing and spitting out cancer. Am I supposed to put a filter on that? Or on the picture of me being forced to pray the rosary while I have a different idea of how to pray? Should I post on Instagram my and my father’s first ambulance ride? My father convulsing and seizing? Chanel bags get a lot more followers. But Chanel bags aren’t reality.
The upside with this is that I don’t wish Chanel bags were my reality. Not anymore. Although sometimes, I do occasionally think how glamorous it would be to just reincarnate as Paris Hilton’s dog. If you’ve been reading my previous posts, you must know I don’t have a good relationship with my father. I’ve wished things would happen that I don’t really mean, just so it would end my suffering. He represented a lot of problems in our family, and I used to believe he was the root of them.
But when he was convulsing, seizing and gasping for air like that, it was like I was in the middle of flipping a coin. I knew what I wanted to happen. I didn’t want him to die, I didn’t want him gone. Not right there, like that. It would be an injustice to me. I would forever be haunted by the fact that I didn’t even try to settle things between us. To tell him what I really felt. To have my biggest, deepest wish ungranted because I didn’t do anything about it. At the same time, I’m still a coward. I’m scared things won’t turn out the way I want them to if I actually did try to go out of my usual way to confront him. We just don’t do confrontations.
I just hope, like always, that this time changes things. That there are lessons learned. That he won’t be who he was before. That he will realize things he should’ve a long time ago. We’re already so emotionally and financially drained, I don’t think I can afford to lose anything else at this point.
P.S. On a lighter note, there are a lot of cute nurses and doctors at the hospital. Sign me up for residency, please.